The punch was pretty tart. It was also pretty punched. And Big Guy Jim was bent on punching a place nearby that decanter of joy, a place where he could slug that refined and rarified mash down as if it were pure mountain water. A place where he could begin working on a lonely eighty-six. … Continue reading Punch Drunk Lament
For Kathy This empty hand, like our home is emptiest when empty of your hand; these awkward elbows, their graceless worst without yours graceful near by me, these knees, would not could never kneel to thrust up thanks to God if you were not what thanks were for; of loins: the nearer yours to mine … Continue reading What Thanks Are For
one star fleets through clouds above of the bar’s neon "open" flickering off and on.
Why does he not close the window that last thin whistle gap the wind moans through?
Lee Robison's poem "They Wheel him Out," which first appeared here on Writlee.com has just been posted on Drabble (They Wheel Him out). We really like the illustration Drabble selected for this poem. Thanks
And suddenly nothing. Nothing. Zip. Miranda Velositer wasn’t saying anything. Nada. A typical hour with Miranda Velositer consisted of at least sixty-eight minutes— sometimes as much as eighty minutes—of monologue. Reggie Velositer would know. He has spent, by his own calculation, twenty-five million hours, give or take, with Miranda. Twenty-five million interminable hours, most of … Continue reading Getting an Earful
All the lights were out. Rain, snow, sleet and hail drummed, thudded, and pummeled on roof, siding, and window. Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled. Sport cowered under the bed. Ritter opened another beer. Furrz licked her paws. Dwain bitched because the internet was down and you can’t WOW and massively murder multi-players when the internet is … Continue reading A D-8T Cat, a Single-Wide, a Large Woman, and a Grizzly Bear